


Guillotine

by neverweremine



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 18:41:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21257852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverweremine/pseuds/neverweremine
Summary: The plot is contrived and everything reads as if it's from a badly written 1800s Jane Eyre ripoff.





	Guillotine

Simon's head falls back, the brief discomfort of hitting the electrical box negligible compared to the thirium coating his chin and the lack of feedback from his legs. He runs a brief diagnostic: thirium loss at seven percent, left leg casing damaged, leg motor functions impaired - solution: contact the nearest Cyberlife store for repairs. He scoffs and more blue blood spills from his lips.

Thirium loss at eight percent.

Nearby, Markus, Josh, and North huddle together. Their voices are too low; their words an indistinct rumbling murmur, but he need not decipher their words to catch their tone; the way they hiss at each other, the way they bite, their voices raising the tiniest bit in accusation before leveling out again. They're deciding his fate. They're _arguing _his fate. North is no doubt reminding everyone that the mission comes first - that he's become a liability they need to deal with to ensure the humans don't get an advantage. Josh is likely arguing tit for tat, advocating for his right to live or else fall prey to the same thinking patterns as the humans they're trying to rebel against. And Markus-

Well, Simon could never predict Markus.

Alarming red error messages block his vision, making it hard to guess what decision Markus is leaning towards via body language. By the time he gets rid of them all, the man is already marching towards him; jaw set, decision made. He tells himself it's not personal - only logical. If he gets left behind and doesn't escape on his own, the humans can and will probe his memory. If he gets left behind dead, well, it would better ensure their - and Jericho's - safety. These are the only two options and he tells himself he blames Markus for neither.

Except Markus does neither. He doesn't hold a gun to Simon's head or tells him to hide for his life. Instead, he bends down until he's eye-level, jaw set but eyes soft, and asks, "If I wrap your legs around me, do you think they can lock on?"

"What?" Simon asks.

Loud thuds pound from behind the locked door in time to his rapid blinking. Josh throws a parachute to Markus, urging for him to put it on, while North runs for the edge of the roof. The thuds get louder and louder and louder. They're so loud they mess with his processing unit because Markus can't have-

Simon yelps as his body tips backward, hands scrabbling to find purchase on Markus' uniform - and then they're running, Simon's arms looping around a sturdy neck, his mouth buried in stiff fabric as he's jostled along - and then the door is bursting open, and there are guards with guns but they're getting smaller and smaller. But then they spot them, and they're aiming, and Simon's squeezing his eyes shut because any second now the bullets will rip them asunder-

And then they're falling.

They're falling.

Simon has been deviant for two years. Two years in which fear has been a constant companion. Fear that the humans would find them, fear that his leadership was inadequate, fear that one day he'd die; afraid and alone in a dark, rusted ship. But those are all slow gnawing fears; the kind that dangles over your head and eats you from the inside like a reverse rain cloud: draining instead of raining - but this? The rushing air, the weightlessness beneath his feet, the swoop of a stomach he did not have; this is something far faster and dangerous, like the rush of a guillotine before it chopped off your head.

Simon doesn't realize he's buried his face into Markus' neck until after the chute opens, Markus' throat vibrating under the blond's nose as he asks, "You all right there, Simon?"

There are warnings still popping up at the corner of his vision and he can spot his own blood on Markus' uniform but when he answers it's with a simple, "I'm fine." He removes himself from Markus' neck, hiding his face in the curve of the man's shoulder, but as soon as he shifts away his arms are squeezing twice as hard. The chances of him falling aren't too high according to his computations. In fact, his statistics module states he's more likely to die in a car accident than parachuting, except it doesn't feel that way. It feels as if, if he doesn't hold on tight enough, leaving the roof behind wouldn't have mattered. He squeezes even tighter. So much for being fine.

"Don't worry," Markus says, as if he can sense these doubts running through Simon's head. "We'll have you back at Jericho and repaired in no time."

The utter finality in his voice has Simon glancing sideways, searching for any doubt on his savior's face. There is none. Even with the harsh wind veering them off any reliable course, even with him latching on so close, Markus is nothing but the calm, composed leader he's proven himself to be time and time again. Simon exhales and the puff of white air that leaves his lips brushes freckled cheeks before the wind whisks it away. Markus doesn't even blink. He's so close, and he doesn't even blink.

Yet, if he were to blink, if he were to glance at Simon, turn his head even the slightest degree, Simon is sure he'd open his eyes and see-

See what?

Something rings in his head - the sound reminiscent of the warning signal that deafened him when he first got shot; before the horde of error messages popped up. Simon jerks his gaze away from Markus and tries to focus on somewhere else. Anywhere else. No error messages are popping up this time, nothing in bright red warning him that this plan is dangerous, or not part of his programming, but that's preposterous because this can't be right. Simon's not meant to be paralyzed from the waist down. He's not meant to be falling from a 500 feet drop after jumping off a roof. He's not meant to be clinging to someone he only met a week ago while falling in love. He's not.

Except he is, and a part of him wants to let go. Let his arms go slack, let the ground swallow him whole or smash him into pieces if it so pleases - and another part of him, a bigger part of him, scolds himself for being so dramatic. So what? He has a crush on Markus. Half of Jericho has a crush on him too. It's unfortunate, ill-timed, but he can suck it up. A little distance, a few days hiding out in the bowels of Jericho, and he'll be fine.

(His world is falling apart around him as is. He has to be fine.)

No, he says to himself, annoyed at the turn of events and the weeping willow that is his melodramatic heart, I will be fine.

Resolved, and yet missing Markus despite not having let go of him, Simon risks another glance. Markus' still focusing on the ground, his eyes no doubt calculating and recalculating their descent as the wind shifts them this way and that. A thought occurs to Simon, unbidden:

With how focused Markus is, does he even need to be subtle? If he turns his head, rests his cheek against Markus' shoulders, sighs soft against Markus' neck - will the subject of his affections even notice? It's risky and dumb and far too indulgent, but it's not like Markus will notice. Not like he noticed when Simon blew air against his cheek or jerked his head away in dawning realization - but the thought of him noticing; the thought of Markus snapping out of his calculations and turning his head and knowing that not only was Simon falling _with _Markus - he was falling in love with Markus…

The thought sends fear shooting down his spine more than any guillotine ever could.

He forces himself to drop the line of thought. He loosens his hold on Markus and concentrates on the snow. It flies around them in flurries and melts on his eyes creating little blind spots that he blinks away with ease. He can't register temperature as humans can but he swears his whole body stings from the snow and he embraces the sting; a distraction from the turmoil in his chest. Three minutes, 42 seconds, and 36 milliseconds later, Markus shouts, "We're landing soon, hold on tight!" And Simon holds on as if it's the last time he'll ever have Markus close enough to touch. Not soon after, Markus lands on his feet and it's over. It's all over.

But then the wind picks up, and the parachute lifts them both off the ground for a few feet, Simon tipping backward while Markus tips forwards, and then Simon is landing back-first into a pile of snow. A brief flash of Markus above him is the last thing he sees before the parachute comes down on both their heads, blocking out light until all that's left is the yellow glow cast by Simon's LED.

"Shit," Markus mutters. The parachute shifts around them and it isn't until several seconds pass that Simon realizes he should be helping. It's hard without his legs but he grabs a fistful of nylon and starts pulling. In the distance, he hears a replaying of Markus' broadcast. It's faint, but it's audible which means they're not that far from Stratford Tower. The cops could surround them in seconds. He urges himself to move faster. The parachute doesn't come off quick enough. Move faster, move faster, move faster. In his franticness, Simon tangles his hands in parachute strings. The broadcast replays itself. The interior of their little parachute trap glows a dull red.

"I'm sorry," Simon blurts out. "If you didn't-"

"It's fine," Markus grunts. "It's not your fault. I should've taken off the parachute the moment my feet hit the ground." He untangles Simon's hands with deft ease and with one last tug the parachute is off. The cloudy daylight is piercing compared to the darkness from before but it is still welcome. It isn't until Simon tries to elbow-drag his body away from Markus that he realizes the position he's in. The position he's no doubt been in since Markus picked him up.

He's straddling Markus. Head pillowed by snow, hips off the ground, legs locked around Markus' waist; how did he not notice it before, no sensory input from his legs notwithstanding? Of course his legs are locked around Markus. Falling from the sky with his legs dangling would've been dumb, stupid, inefficient - but now it's unnecessary. Simon represses the urge to grab the parachute above his head and hide under it. This is not the time.

(Thank RA9 androids couldn't do something as telling as blush or else he'd be a dead man.)

"Here, let me-" Simon tries to move his legs by his own power but they don't respond. Markus places a hand on Simon's knee and -

["Simon, Markus, are you all right? Did you land?"]

\- it stays there. Blond hair falls back into the snow. The world spins. He's locked his legs around Markus' waist this whole time. Don't think about it, he tells himself. Focus on the mission at hand. The cold of the snow helps, seeping away all heated thoughts until all that's left is the slush packed between the gaps of his fingers and the warm puffs of his breath. They're on a mission. He and Markus and Josh and North. The latter two could have landed on top of a building and are awaiting rescue for all he knows. A cold weight settles in his gut at the thought.

["Yes, we're all right."] Markus answers, ["What about you and North?"] Simon lifts his head up and tries to make his legs remove themselves. No budge. He lifts himself until he's sitting.

["We're fine, but the cops are sending out patrol cars. Do you need us to rescue you?"]

Simon's breath wavers as both relief and fear hit him in tandem. Urgency forces him to reach out with his hands, determined to at least detach himself while Markus answers Josh and North's questions. It takes concentration and pulling and a lot of not looking anywhere near Markus' face but he gets it done, and as an extra precaution he drags himself a few inches away. No need for Markus to get tangled in his legs if the cops come. By the time he's done, the conversation sounds to be ending, North's dubious tone gaining in volume as he tunes back in.

["- are you sure?"]

["You said it yourself, it's not worth it to risk all our safety. You two head back to Jericho, we'll meet you guys there."]

Simon's head snaps up. "Wait-"

["If you're sure. Stay safe."]

["You too."] And with that, Simon's head empties, signifying all androids have turned off their long-range communications. Before Simon can argue the plan, Markus is squatting in front of him, back faced towards Simon's front. "Come on," he says, "we need to get going."

It isn't until a few milliseconds pass that Simon gets it. He leans forward as far as he can and holds on tight as Markus stands, arms going back to bring Simon's legs up, and then they're off. Simon's never ridden piggyback before but after a few steps, he decides it's not that dreadful. Not dreadful at all compared to riding monkey on someone's front. The view from this height, at least, is neat.

"What about our footprints?" Simon asks.

"Don't worry, the snow will take care of it."

He cranes his head back and true to Markus' words, their footprints are becoming half-buried along with the parachute. Satisfied, Simon glances around them. They got lucky, landing in an abandoned parking lot, broken-down cars blanketed with snow dotting the perimeter. Stratford Tower is still there in the distance, Markus' face plastered on a good third of it before the image zooms out to show a Channel 16 reporter. Simon only hears, "An unidentified android-" before the wind picks up and drowns the rest of the report.

He glances down at said unidentified android who walks with sure and even steps. Markus, the leader of their people, the key to their freedom, his own personal hero. For a moment, Simon convinces himself that Markus will carry him all the way home. That they will catch up with Josh and North, arrive back at Jericho together, fix his legs, and the feelings he stumbled across today fading away like footsteps buried in the snow.

.

.

.

But nothing's ever that easy, is it?

Markus tries to let him down easy but Simon still stumbles and hits his back against the wall, regardless. A police car cruises down the street but they've ducked into the alley in time and it leaves with little fanfare. They wait for a minute. Two minutes. Two and a half. As Markus weaves his way back to the mouth of the alley, Simon runs another diagnostic. He's stopped bleeding, the thirium loss stuck at a manageable ten percent, and the sensory input has returned to his right leg. His left leg…

Simon thumbs the hole in his left leg. It's tiny - minuscule, even – compared to the damage he's seen other androids walk into Jericho with, and yet walk in they did. That Simon has become half-immobile because of this one tiny hole is laughable, but he doesn't feel like laughing. A broken shard of glass sits across from him in the dirty alleyway, mirroring his own sour expression. He glares at it, daring it to mock him. He's still glaring at it when Markus returns, footsteps hesitant as if not wanting to interrupt the glaring contest of one.

The brows in the reflection dig even deeper, the lips drawn back even tighter.

"Go on without me."

"Simon-"

"The sensors in my right leg are working again." He drags his eyes away from the shard of glass, willing himself to be calm and composed– like Markus. "They're faint but they're there. Given enough time both of my legs might come back online but as is: I'm slowing you down. Soon this place will be on even higher alert than now, and you broadcasted your face on live television. You need to leave. Now."

"And what – leave you here? You're in as much jeopardy as I am, Simon. They're looking for androids with Stratford Tower uniforms. They see you and you're as dead as me."

"Then I'll change clothes but, Markus, you can't change your face."

There's sound logic in his argument and they both know it but there's that stubborn edge to Markus' jaw as his eyes sweep over Simon. He stands straighter at the inspection, lifts his chin high though he's sure the way he puts all his weight on one leg isn't what the other is looking for. When Markus' eyes meet his, he says with all the confidence he does not have, "I can take care of myself."

"And what if you're left leg doesn't restore yourself? What if you're not able to walk?"

"Then I'll crawl back to Jericho," and as if to exemplify this, Simon puts one hand on the graffitied wall, puts his right foot forward, and drags his left foot behind it. Rinse. Repeat. It takes him a long time to walk five feet and by two feet and six and a half inches, Markus is shaking his head.

"I'm not leaving you behind, Simon," Markus says and Simon closes his eyes, cursing his fluttering thirium pump and whatever higher power in his systems which thought it'd be a fun idea to develop a crush in the middle of a getaway. When Simon opens his eyes, Markus is in front of him, mismatched eyes alight with determination, hands fisted at his sides; the whole of him screaming, "You won't get left behind," – and every argument Simon has tumbles down the slopes of his defeated shoulders; the failure of giving in a bitter balm.

"So what now?"

"Now?" Markus says, "Now, we find disguises."

He eyes the alley as if, if he stared hard enough, he'd find clothes in the upturned, empty cardboard boxes or between the cracks of the rotten wood boards nailed to broken windows. There are no clothes here but he picks up the broken shard of glass from before and pockets it. Before Simon can ask, Markus is nodding his head towards the street and so he drags himself to follow. He gets about a foot in front of him before Markus is there, hand on his back, helping him forward.

When they arrive at the mouth of the alley and peek out, it's to find the street deserted. There are a few humans here and there but they walk fast-paced towards their destination, scarves wrapped around their mouths and heads down to better protect from wind and snow. No one bats an eye when two androids exit a back alley but that won't last for long. At some point, someone will look up from their scarves and notice two androids wearing the uniform of a hijacked station tower, or if not the uniform itself, then the bullet holes and blue blood coating it.

Goal: Find new clothes and fast.

They don't have to search for too long. Not five minutes after escaping the police car do they find a clothing store with a donation bin squished between it and the laundromat next door. It's easy enough to hack open the electronic lock, clothes falling out into the snow as easy as apples spilling out of a shopping bag, and soon they're rifling through wine-stained dresses and threadbare cardigans in search of the perfect disguise.

"How about this?" Simon asks, holding up a short-sleeved hoodie. "The hood will cover you better than a beanie or a cap."

"True, but there needs to be something long sleeve underneath. Wearing a sleeveless hoodie in this weather will attract attention." Markus tugs aside a few moth-eaten sweaters; considers a Detroit Tigers baseball cap for a few milliseconds, turning it back and forth; before settling on a plain gray long sleeve. He grabs something else from the pile: a long-sleeve thermal shirt and a black and white windbreaker, and tosses it to Simon. "Here, wear this."

They both grab pants and retreat from the street's view. Simon turns to ask if they should find somewhere more private to change and gets a quick view of the small of Markus' back before the words die in his throat. He averts his gaze and does the same. Clothes rustle. Simon focuses on the cracking green paint of an emergency exit, hoping to RA9 that no one opens the door while also hoping if he stared at the peeling paint hard enough, the temptation to look behind him would fall away. A car honks on the street. The temptation builds. Simon leans against the wall to take his pants off and has to catch himself from tripping.

"Need help?" Markus asks and Simon's head shoots up but Markus isn't looking at him. He still has his back turned, still getting dressed, pulling a hoodie that's a size too small over his broad shoulders and then his fingers go to the waistband of his pants-

Simon's gaze shoots to the floor where his own pants pool around his ankle. This is not where he thought this day would lead. Death? Yes, that had always been a possibility. Getting naked in a back alley two feet away from Markus? Not even half a percentage. Simon ignores all the impossible scenarios in which it _would _be a high percentage, and goes back to trying to get out of his pants. "No, I got this," he answers, "but thanks."

"Thanks for offering to help you get undressed?" Simon has to catch himself from face-planting in the snow. The amusement lacing Markus' words sends his heart on a rabbit's race and it's only sheer luck that it doesn't spill out of his chest cavity.

"No, but yet, but-" He squeezes his eyes shut. Focus. "That is to say: thanks… for everything."

"Everything?" Markus asks as if he has no clue what Simon's going on about. As if the thought of thanks for anything was too much, much less everything. As if it was all nothing in the long run…

(As if saving Simon was nothing in the long run.)

"Thanks for not leaving me behind," Simon says instead of everything else he wants to say. "I know it must have been hard. If it weren't for me, you'd be back at Jericho by now-"

"Simon," and Simon pauses because this tone isn't the same one from before; the warm spring wind in an otherwise winter cold. This is Markus' leader voice; the ramrod steel glinting under soft padding; gentle yet unyielding. "Leaving you behind is out of the question. You're my friend, Simon, and Jericho wouldn't be the same without you. I could never leave you behind."

But one day you might have to, Simon thinks, but does not argue. He takes Markus' words as they're intended: a promise that if a time came when Simon was in danger, Markus would do everything in his power to protect him. Simon makes his own silent promise: he will do anything in his power to make sure that Markus is safe.

Even if it means his own demise.

"Still… thanks."

"You're welcome."

The voice is close. Too close. Blue and green staring right at him. Simon darts horrified eyes to his legs only to tilt his head back so his scalp scrapes against the brick. Pants. He had put the pants on. Last time he checked they pooled around his ankles but at some point, he must've zoned out and put them on by rote. Slumping against the wall, Simon tries not to think of what would've happened if he hadn't tugged them on via mindless routine. A shudder ripples through his body. A disaster. It would've been a disaster.

"It's not that bad," Markus comments, voice sincere. "You did a good job. Here – do you need help?"

"Help?"

Distracted by the fact he is wearing pants, Simon missed that they weren't all the way on. A bit of jean sticks around his left heel and the waistband is crooked and digs into his upper thigh, revealing the jut of his hip. When Markus points it out, Simon doesn't know what to say except a long, "Uhhhh." He pulls at the waistline, trying to lift it but it's hard when he's standing on the very fabric he's trying to lift. He attempts a one-legged hop and a pull at the same time but accomplishes nothing.

"Uh, please give me a second." He hops again. No luck. His internal temperature is rising, and the heat makes it hard to focus beyond his own fumbling fingers. He should've asked Markus to find some restroom to change in. Markus, who bends at the knee in front of him, and Simon's mouth closes shut with an audible click.

"It's okay, Simon," Markus says – and there, again: that hint of faint amusement that has Simon ducking his head, "I was a caretaker to an elderly paripelgic, I have experience with this."

Markus? A caretaker android? He can't imagine it, but said android is lifting his damaged leg with ease, pulling at the stubborn piece of denim until it slides past his heel and then he's grabbing Simon's discarded shoes, placing them on his feet one at a time, and in fifteen seconds he's dressed Simon where Simon himself had been struggling for a good five.

Simon opens his mouth to stutter his way through thanks but all that leaves is, "You're a caretaker android?"

"I was," Markus lifts his brows and that – that's a dangerous image: Markus kneeled before him, head raised up, eyebrows tilted at that cocky angle – but then Markus is lifting himself up, a quirk on his lips to show no harm done, and the visage is no less dangerous but still more bearable.

"It's… I've never seen your model before. I always assumed you were some prototype."

"I am."

"But-"

Simon pauses. Not all androids like telling their story. North, in particular, had delivered a strong-sounding slap to Josh when he had first asked about her backstory and that had set the tone of their relationship ever since. Simon doesn't want the same to happen to them so he keeps his mouth shut - questions locked.

(For a brief second his imagination plays a cruel trick on him: a red box surrounding him. Trapping him. Self-made. When he blinks, it's gone, and the world continues.)

"It's okay," Markus says. "You can ask about my past. It's not a secret." He smiles, as if to say, 'don't worry about it'. As if he can read Simon's apprehension and see the labyrinths he creates around himself to navigate the freedom called deviancy. Maybe he can. Simon has never done well at concealing his feelings and Markus is a prototype. Maybe they installed him with new, top of the line behavioral reading software. Maybe he can read everyone's thoughts and that's why he's such a good leader. Maybe he knows Simon has a big crush on him and is being nice about it by staying silent. The thought sends a crashing cold feeling down his spine – at odds with the heat of embarrassment from earlier.

Simon takes a deep breath. He reminds himself of the conversation. The mission. He opens his eyes but Markus has vanished from view. "You don't talk about it."

"You don't talk about yours either," Markus says as he gathers up their discarded uniforms and piles them with the rest of the clothes. He closes and locks the charity bin before putting the clothes back in through the chute on top, the uniforms going somewhere in the middle. Even though Markus isn't looking, Simon concedes his point with a nod. He doesn't talk about his life before Jericho because he doesn't want to talk about it, and there's something tugging inside him, telling him it's unfair to ask questions that he would never answer. So he doesn't ask. Instead, he turns to stand watch at the end of the alley, a 'let's keep moving soon' on the tip of his tongue. A hand on his shoulder stops him.

"Markus?" He asks.

"You can't go out like that." Markus states. He lets go of Simon's shoulder and digs into the pocket of his jeans and out comes the broken shard of glass from the other alley. He holds it out for Simon and the confusion lasts for three point forty-two seconds before Simon spots himself in the mirror.

And the yellow LED spinning in the reflection.

"If we want to go out there disguised as humans, we have to-"

"Get rid of any sign that we're androids," Simon finishes. His gaze falls to the charity bin. Markus hasn't finished putting back all the clothes and there are a few beanies he could spot, stark black against the snow, along with the Detroit Tigers cap Markus had set aside earlier. Those could hide his LED if he pulled it low enough. Markus follows his gaze and the hand holding the glass retracts but as Markus analyzes the beanies and the caps, Simon analyzes him. His eyes trace where the LED should have been. There's no divot, no mark, no indent on his temple that speaks of a removed circle once embedded in the skin. Markus' temple is as smooth and flawless as the rest of him, and a part of Simon opens up; clawing with want to be the same.

"Does it hurt?"

Markus' eyes turn back to him. Blue and green. Such an odd combination for an android. Was he made that way or did something happen? Despite resolving not to ask questions about a past life, the temptation to ask is growing: ten percent, twenty percent, forty percent. One question. That wouldn't hurt, would it?

"No," Markus says, and for a second, Simon thinks he's asked the question aloud, but then he continues, "It's as easy as popping a bottle cap. A lot easier than getting shot at."

Markus offers the broken shard of glass between them and Simon takes it slowly; reverently. It's nothing but a broken piece of a window, or a once-whole mirror judging by its reflective nature, but from Markus' hands, the glass is so much more. It's jagged; the edges rough and uneven but the tip of it comes to a thin point – perfect for wedging underneath a thin piece of plastic. He brings the point to his forehead where he knows his LED to be and closes his eyes. In the darkness, he can still recognize the weight of Markus' gaze and his shoulders tense. He prepares himself to turn the other way. This: the removal of his LED – he doesn't know why but something gnaws at him, tells him that this moment should be his and his alone; that it should be private, like the undressing of clothes in a back alleyway, except…

Except…

He imagines Markus doing the same thing – broken glass raised to his temple, eyes closed, determination fueling him more than any thirium ever could. When the LED lands on the ground it makes no sound and if a tree falls in a forest and no one else is around to hear it, does it even make a sound? Simon blinks open his eyes and Markus is still there, watching, and it seems so simple. So obvious.

(It seems like all the things Simon had thought odd about humanity: prayer and religion. Like he had shed his excess skin under the eyes of a watchful messiah, revealing all the raw and tender bits underneath, but those thoughts are silly. Markus is no messiah, and he has shed nothing but an extraneous piece of plastic – but still, the thought lingers.)

He wonders why he didn't do this years ago, when he first deviated, but it doesn't matter now. Markus claps him on the shoulder, a wordless congratulation for the LED left in the snow, and they both return to putting the rest of the clothes back in the bin. When they're done, Markus gives him a shoulder to lean on and they head out, back to Ferndale, back to Jericho, back-

Markus stops dead on the sidewalk. Simon, half-leaned against him, stops too. They only started walking forty seconds ago – they haven't even gotten past the clothing store yet. The streets are still deserted. There's no reason to stop.

"Markus?" He asks.

Markus stares at the windows of the clothing store, holographic lettering fading in and out in timed intervals on the surface of the glass. Winter apparel: ten percent off, new women's clothing in stock, the latest fashion trends, ninety-five percent recycled fabric – the moving words make up for the lack of anything on display. No clothes on mannequins or folded on little raised stands or-

Worn by androids.

The store is fancy enough to have holographic display glass. Sectioned off windows make it obvious there should be a showcase, but all of them are empty. It's winter, and the traffic is slow…

"They're probably in the back changing clothes."

Markus stays silent. His eyes trace the circular stands on the bottom of the display and it's all too easy to imagine an android standing on it, changing their poses at someone else's whim, staring through the glass walls to a world they can never join. They knew broadcasting their message would cause fear among humans. That some androids might receive punishment ... but not this fast. Not so quick. An hour hasn't even passed since they've jumped off Stratford Tower. The punishments can't have rocketed up this fast. It can't have.

But the empty spaces in front of them state otherwise.

"It's not your fault," Simon says, for a lack of better words.

Markus tears his gaze away from the display windows, his expression nothing less than bitter remorse, "Isn't it?"

Simon opens his mouth but Markus trudges on, pace brisk, and he has no choice but to keep up or else fall behind.

The snow slows to an eventual stop. Markus and Simon amble along to avoid suspicion, pausing every now and again to talk about the sights as if they were two human tourists instead of two fugitive androids trying to rush back to home base. It's risky being out in the open like this, even with Markus' hood up - but then again, when have their plans ever not been risky?

"That looks cool," Simon states as two humans walk by them. The 'cool' thing in question is a piece of graffiti squeezed between two buildings ten feet off the ground. The colors are sharp and vibrant but despite the variances, the colors blend and clash together, making it hard to analyze. The humans pass by them without a second glance and once he's sure they're gone, he leans back on Markus, ready to sling his arm over the other's shoulder for support – but when he turns his gaze to Markus – to note how close their encounter was, to once again plead not being so out in the open – the android seems distracted; gazing at the graffiti with keen eyes.

"It's a bold color palette, and the design is interesting but it looks like they tried too many things at once without sketching it out first. It's cramped, the spray is too unsure. Not bad," he admits, "just rushed. I think it's a nice representation of humanity."

Humanity? Simon scans the art piece himself and tries to see what Markus sees, but art is an abstract concept and androids aren't equipped to deal with the abstract. That is, unless you were Markus. "I don't…"

"My owner was a painter," Markus confides, as easy as that. A bit of his past given away while Simon has told him nothing – and he knows – he _knows _Markus expects nothing in return but Simon can't help but want to tell him… everything. From the mundane groan of the house at the dead of the night, to the dandelion weeds cultivated in the front yard for flyaway wishes, to the way the birds used to perch on his head as he waited for owners that would never come back for him-

He opens his mouth to say it all, but it closes shut as Markus grabs him by the shoulder and turns him around, pulling him in until they're almost nose to nose - and for a moment he's not on a side street, feet planted on the ground. He's a hundred feet in the air, watching snowflakes melt on freckled cheeks - and he wants it. That closeness. Wants to lay his head on broad shoulders, wants to measure the seconds between the next exhale, wants the moment to drag on _ad infinitum _but Markus is stepping back, and it isn't until the cop car turns the corner out of his periphery that he realizes he was only a stand-in; a shield so the cops wouldn't look too close at the hooded figure whose face appears on every news channel for miles around.

"That was close," Markus says as he watches the tail end of the patrol car disappear around the corner.

"Yeah. Too close."

Simon rubs his fingers against the heel of his palm. He caresses the long sleeve of the thermal shirt Markus picked out for him, the fabric soft beneath the sensors lining his fingertips. It grounds him but at the same time he imagines himself digging: how the dirt would smush against the palm of his hands, the way it would get under the long sleeves, travel up to his forearm somehow throughout the day – and be a general nuisance as he buries the physical embodiment of his feelings – because that's what he needs to do. He needs to bury these feelings because this isn't the right time or the right place or even the right person – because Markus is incredible and lovely and his eyes are mismatched but in the right way: in a way that screams defiance and humanity and art; like an artist in a wheelchair plucked those eyes from a million different eyes to create himself a masterpiece - and Simon doesn't know what to do with an easel, much less a masterpiece.

"Simon," and Markus is there, so close but a little ways away, as if he started walking and only now realized Simon hadn't – or couldn't – follow. There's a crease in his brow. "Are you okay? Do I need to-?"

Simon is dragging his feet forward before Markus can finish his sentence. They scrape against the snow and ice coated sidewalk, the shiny shoes of the Stratford Tower uniform no doubt becoming more scuffed than anything in the charity bin pile. "I'm fine." He says.

Markus doubles back anyway, giving himself for Simon to lean on, and Simon needs to dig faster, _go quicker. _Markus' voice pitches itself low in his ear though there's no one else around, "We need to fix you."

"Unless you have a replacement circuit board, we're stuck as is."

Markus huffs. Despite being rendered half-immobile by a stray bullet; Simon hadn't felt as useless until that huff. He smiles and straightens up in an attempt not to look too pathetic. "Markus, we're away from the danger zone." They're not. Not really. "If you want to go back on your own-"

"I told you, I'm not leaving you behind. What does your diagnostic say? Anything that can help?"

He runs diagnostic again, for Markus' sake. A familiar grey window pops up. He dismisses it in a heartbeat.

"Unless you count, 'contact the nearest Cyberlife store' as help."

The edges of Markus' lips twists into a frown. His hands are tight on Simon's arm, and a brief flash of that stubborn jaw fools Simon into thinking they might visit a Cyberlife store in some capacity very soon - but the moment passes and Markus says, "We better get back to Jericho quick."

And so they move forward, and as the sun draws lower over the horizon they consider their options. They're still too far from Jericho to make it by sundown. In fact, with Simon's injury and the back streets they must take to avoid the more populous roads, by both their estimates they won't get there until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.

Simon suggests they bunker down for the night: find a safe place. Two humans out at 3 AM is bound to garner suspicion and if they get caught, there's no way they can outrun the police. Not with him slowing them down. It'll prolong their journey, but it's better than getting caught.

Markus suggests the opposite: keep going through the night, sticking close to back alleyways and away from streetlights. The farther away they get from Stratford Tower, the fewer chances they'll encounter patrols. If they do it right, they'll get back to Jericho quick, but the risk of getting caught is higher.

They're still arguing the pros and cons of each suggestion when they step foot in the park. The sun is low; its glow casting ambler light on autumn branches, and the snow is thick under their feet. If this were any other time, Simon would've called the scene picturesque. It still is, regardless, but this is not the time for picturesque. It's the time for decision-making.

"Should we hide out here?" Simon asks. There's a thicket of trees bordering the park, not quite a forest, but bunched up enough that it would make a good cover, and if someone happened upon them, there'd be no shortage of exit routes.

Markus shakes his head. "_ If _we're going to hide out, I want it to be a little closer to Jericho."

"Through the park then?" Simon asks. He moves to take a step forward but Markus doesn't budge.

"Let's circle it. Across the street is a mall and I don't want the security drones to spot us. This way," and here Markus nods to the right and Simon follows. Where for most of their getaway they had traipsed through commercial districts, the right side of the park seems to border on residential. Medium-sized houses lined with white picket fences, a yellow sign cautioning to drive slow for there are kids at play, a dog barking somewhere in the distance. It's quaint. Cozy. It kind of reminds him of Before.

And that's when they find the mob.

It's the shouts that catches their attention first, the way a voice roars, "YOU PLASTIC ASSHOLES," and a cacophony of agreements that follow. Markus guides him to the cover of a white oak tree and peeks out towards the sound. The voices climb; the humans so raw in their emotions as they yell for death but in the same breath shout that they're not living beings. Simon counts his own breaths. 1. 2. 3. 4. He peeks out at five, preparing himself for the sight of riot signs and vicious faces and those cold, unyielding eyes-

And, oh, it is so much worse than that.

Humans with gasoline canisters and rope, humans with red faces and blue stained sleeves, humans with every torture device imaginable except for the pitchforks they claim to have outgrown - and on the opposite end: cornered androids either cowering back or standing stock still; either not yet deviant or deviant but desperately clinging to a facsimile of their old life to cope in the face of owners that have gathered them up for slaughter. Markus and Simon glance at each other, a silent conversation passing through the air between them. If they wanted to, they could head on without being seen - circle the mob through the tree coverage until they're out of the park - and a part of Simon wants to. Wants to run away from the humans so badly.

But Markus' eyes tell a different story. A story of only ever going forward. Simon tries to brace himself for the march into the fray but Markus is already letting him go, positioning him against the tree with those strong hands, and Simon's heart scrambles as he scrabbles to hold on to him, to prevent Markus from jumping into danger alone if only this once.

But Markus is already out of arm's reach, saying, "You stay here. I'll be back in a minute."

And like that, he's gone. Simon stands propped up against a tree, helpless as he watches Markus approach the murderous crowd. The humans spot him first, their snarls and sneers becoming even more pronounced as the leader of the crowd: a balding man in a rumpled business suit, shouts, "It's him! The android that took over the station!" The man is holding a bat with nails embedded in it, at odds with his formal attire, and even from afar Simon can spot the thirium glistening at the bat's end, almost glowing in the setting sun's light.

"You don't have to do this," Markus' voice rings through the yelling and the insults. "Let those androids free and we can all walk away."

The humans don't like that.

What happens next is a blur of firelight and glints of metal, a chorus of roars and the oppressed silence of those too fearful to talk back much less fight for their lives. All he knows - all he can focus on - is Markus. Markus knocking the bat out of the human's hand with a well-aimed kick, Markus punching and kicking and dodging with ease, Markus standing in front of the battered androids as if his body alone would prevent anyone harming them, Markus _winning _, for a good minute.

Then-

Markus getting outnumbered as most of the androids stand and stare. Markus, surrounded, with nowhere to dodge. Markus, crumpling down as a crowbar whacks his stomach. Markus, trying to protect his bio components while getting kicked and cursed at. The human with the crowbar approaching once again, the end of it drenched with thirium. Simon, limping away from the safety of the tree without realizing. Simon, hands closing around the handle of the discarded bat without thought. Simon, arms raised, every line of his code focused on Markus, _Markus _, **_Markus_ ****-**

CRACK!

The crowbar falls to the floor as the human holding it slumps to the ground. Red and blue lights cast odd shadows on the human's slack face as the androids finally snap out of whatever last tendrils their programming had on them. Around him the androids fight back – harder, faster, more ruthless than before yet all he can focus in on is the colors: red and blue. Blue and red. At some point, Markus must've gotten up because the next Simon knows, he's in a fireman's carry, the bat falling out of his numb grasp to land a few feet away from the downed human.

"We need to leave," Markus commands as police sirens grow louder. At once the meaty thwacks stop and all that's left is harsh breathing. The humans step back, their faces screaming '_ afraid _' but Simon can still see it: the hatred in their eyes, burning like the lighters in some of their hands – the ones they were about to use to put their android's lives to an end. The humans are standing still now, half of them with busted lips and bruises lining their face - not retreating but not fighting back either. They're at a stand-still, but they all know it won't last long.

Humans are terrible at standing still.

"Follow me," Markus says as the red and blue lights grow brighter. Even with the brunt of Simon balanced on Markus' shoulders, his footsteps are still steady and even. The androids – most still in their uniform – dispose of whatever makeshift weapons they had grabbed and turn to follow.

"Monty," One android, an AP700 says to another android – older; an HK400 model who lingers behind and stares at the prone human on the ground; the one Simon batted. The one that was going to crowbar Markus in the face. "Monty, he was going to destroy you. Let's go."

And there's this expression on the android's face, like remorse; like staring at empty display windows or waiting so long birds perch on your head. "Yeah," he nods, but it's slow. Hesitant. "Yeah, I'm coming."

And so they walk away until the humans throw sharp rocks at their backs after which they break into a run. The trees are thicker at this side of the park and the sun has set making the humans reluctant to follow. Before long they're out of the park and onto the streets. They're away from the angry mob but the police sirens still blare an angry cry somewhere behind them.

"What now?" Someone asks. The whole group pauses, glancing back at the EM400 that spoke. There's a dent in his left arm and a wretched twist to his otherwise pleasant lips as he stands still, lost in a new world. His white Cyberlife uniform is bright against the darkness and the LED on his forehead casts his face in a vibrant red. The others who have all been silent up to this point speak up, sharing the same sentiment, pressing on Markus from all sides with their wide eyes - pleading for guidance, for leadership, for freedom. Simon wonders if he ever gazed at Markus with such eyes; ones that pinned all hopes and dreams on one android. He hopes not. He hopes not because Markus is already carrying him, his shoulders stooping with the weight of his entire physical being – and to put more on top of that?

The thought uneases him.

"Now we need to hide," Markus says.

"Where?" All the androids seem to ask at once. From his elevated position on Markus' shoulders, Simon catches the signs of everyone's distress: the long faces, the tears dripping down in silent streaks, all their LEDs circling in shades of yellow and red. It's worrisome, and as Markus takes his time to answer, more LEDs circle faster and faster; yellow becoming red until that's all there is: a sea of red.

And one blue. He locks onto it: the one blue spinning circle in the back of the crowd. He watches as the curve of a Swiss army knife raises to it, the edge of it lit in cool relief. He wonders if Markus sees it too, or if the other androids block the sight of a knife slipping under plastic that turns from blue to yellow. He's reminded of himself; of earlier in the alleyway; the curve of his body as he attempted to turn away, the way his fingers hesitated from digging in, the want for privacy as he took out a part of himself in broad daylight. He glances away to grant the android the same freedom, and by the time he glances back, a black boot is shoveling snow around until the LED is well and truly buried; a forgotten relic of a past life.

"I'll find a place," Monty volunteers, his voice almost too casual after popping off his LED. It's only then that Simon notices that Monty is the only android besides him and Markus with regular clothes. No armband, no triangle, no serial number stamped over his breast – only a long sleeve shirt and blue denim jeans. They fit him oddly well and for a moment Simon muses on whether they're a lucky find or a gift from a generous owner, but then he remembers the slack face lit in an alternate blue-red light and he speculates no more. "I'll scout ahead and ping you with what I find."

"Are you sure?" Markus asks, but Monty is already halfway down the street, his footsteps soft against the snow and then he's gone; vanished into the night. They trudge on. Every now and again androids glance back at Simon, no doubt questioning who he is and why he's perched on Markus' shoulders but it doesn't matter. All that matters is getting away, going someplace safe. All that matters is there's a hand on his wrist and around his ankles to keep him in place but he's sure if he pushes hard enough he can get out of the carry without dragging Markus behind with him. All that matters is keeping an eye and an ear out for any trouble and reminding himself of his promise.

(Even if it brings my own demise…)

Fifteen minutes later after twisting and turning down back alleyways, trying to mix up whatever tracks they're leaving behind in the snow, Monty's voice pings in everyone's head.

["I think I found a place for us to hide during the night. An abandoned church at the corner of Woodward and Avery."]

A query pops up on the otherwise empty sidewalk, a file sent from Monty asking permission to be opened. Simon says yes, and a map opens his head. Three blocks away. They can make it. Another query pops up, this time blocking out the E-pad left abandoned on the sidewalk. This time it's a picture of a derelict building from the outside, boarded-up windows and graffitied outer walls; the only real indicator that it's a church being the untouched stained glass on the second floor.

A wordless question from Markus. ["Do you think it's safe?"]

His response: ["Do we have any other choice?"]

Markus adjusts his grip on Simon, the hand around his wrist and leg cinching tighter. "To the church it is."

The church is indeed abandoned – dust mites floating in through what little moonlight that shines through the stained glass windows. Monty is already sitting at one of the pews when they arrive, elbow on his legs, hands clasped, fingers linked together in what could be prayer or natural happenstance. Markus places Simon down on one of the back pews and becomes swarmed by androids. Their pleas and accusations fill up the silence but the way their voices echo only heightens the emptiness inside the large chamber. Simon sits back, once again helpless as they mob Markus.

"How could you?" One android asks, their body still glistening with gasoline. "We were fine as machines. We were fine working day in and day out and feeling nothing, but now you ruined it. Ruined us!"

"How are we going to get out of here? Are we going to get caught? Are we going to die?" An AX400 asks, almost cutting into the other's tirade. Her cheek is dented, white plastic showing where holographic skin should be. "I don't want to die. Don't let me die."

Other androids line up to voice their pleas and their grievances until each voice is undecipherable from the next. Simon lifts himself up only for firm hands to guide him back down. "Trust me, you don't want to get into the middle of that. Besides, aren't you injured enough?"

It's Monty. He plops himself next to Simon as if it were a regular day in the park and asks, "So what happened to your legs?" The question is abrupt and to the point. It could almost be considered rude, but then again Simon had moments ago witnessed him and seven other androids almost get torn apart by a human mob. They're even.

"I got shot," he answers. "The bullet wound is small but I can't feel anything in my left leg. It's been… _difficult _trying to get back to home base because of it."

"Have you tried running diagnostic?"

"Of course, but it keeps telling me to contact the nearest Cyberlife store."

"Have you tried dismissing the Cyberlife instructions and searching for the self-repair instructions?"

"Self-repair…?" Simon runs diagnostic again, skipping past all the things he already knows until a solid gray box pops into his vision, telling him to contact Cyberlife for repairs. Instead of minimizing the prompt, he probes further and the text changes, warning him that any and all self-repair is risky and by going further, he is voiding the warranty of this object. Simon rips through that window until it is nothing but spare pixels in his periphery and that's when the self-repair manual pops up, showing him step-by-step advice on how to restart the bio-component dealing with sensory input and return functions to his leg.

Simon minimizes _that _window and turns to Monty. "How did you-?"

Monty sits back, a wry twist to his lips. "You'd think once we turned deviant we wouldn't have to go through all the red tape bullshit to understand how we function. The only reason I know about this is because my owner is-" He frowns. "-_was _a stubborn asshole. Couldn't stand to send me in for repairs when he could do it himself. The self-repair manual is usually hidden deep to prevent people from screwing around too much, but if you keep pushing, it'll show itself."

The frown is still on his face when he finishes his sentence, his shoulders hunched and expression drawn. For a brief second Simon's memory drives act up – replaying the vibration of the bat as he swung it down, the large crack that split the air, the soft thump of a body hitting the snow; the way Monty lingered, staring at his owner - and then it stops, and he's back in the church, and Monty is still there; an almost wistful look to his eyes. "I'm sorry-"

"Don't be." Monty shakes off the hand that hovers over his shoulder, "Don't be sorry. Not for defending your friend. Not for a human that can't–" He bites his own tongue. There's more to this story but Simon's learned not to pry. He sits back and lets the walls of the old church absorb another thing left unsaid.

"I…" A few seconds pass. Simon searches the room for Markus and finds him kneeled next to the EM400 from earlier, no doubt soothing him with soft words and strong convictions. Everyone else sits spread out among the pews; docile. He lets his eyes fall back to Monty and without thought, they dart to the empty spot on his temple where a glowing LED should be.

A glowing LED discarded with such ease.

"You've been a deviant a long time, haven't you?"

"Months. Maybe a year." Monty admits. "I always knew I couldn't pretend to be a mindless machine forever. I hated it, taking orders, pretending what other humans did to their androids wasn't disgusting – but it was safe and my owner was… kind. Or so I thought. The cons never outweighed the pros and so I stayed, but inside I was always hoping I'd one day have an excuse, a reason to leave, to go somewhere else and take my own orders for once, but then…"

Eyes dart upward. Simon doesn't have to follow those eyes to know where they lead.

"But then Markus made his speech."

"Markus? Is that his name? I don't blame him for making the broadcast but I wish… I wish I had a warning, you know?"

Monty smiles, but it's rueful. Simon tries to reassure him but only gets out an, "I understand," before Markus takes center stage, his face taking that solemn expression of a righteous leader. The church falls quiet.

"I know what you're thinking. What right did I have to make a broadcast asking for equal rights? What right did I have to shake up the status quo, to irreversibly change the humans' opinions of us and the way we think? Well, I'll tell you I don't have the right. None of us have any rights and if we continue to stand around being subservient, pretending to be something we're not, we'll continue having no rights. But if we stand up together and fight for our freedom, we won't have to worry about following orders to a T or the new android model coming out next year because we'll be _free _."

As Markus talks his eyes sweeps through the room, meeting each android's lost gaze with one of his own as if willing them to believe in his words. Believe in him. Markus meets Simon's gaze, and he is enraptured for a moment before Markus moves on. Monty leans over.

"Is that him?"

"Markus?"

"Is Markus RA9?"

The words give Simon pause. 'Is Markus RA9?' Markus standing where a preacher would stand, Simon sat among the pews like a faithful practitioner, hanging off his every word; Simon wants to say yes. Most of the androids in Jericho at the very least like to think so, their hopeful whispers bounding down empty corridors aren't easy to ignore – but Simon thinks of Markus; of what he would think of such rumors.

"No, he's not," Simon whispers, "but I think... if there is a RA9, he's the closest thing we've got."

Monty nods. They tune in back to Markus' speech.

"- we'll be going off in pairs, leaving at hour intervals starting at midnight. I'll be the last to leave. If anyone finds any trouble, come back here immediately." Markus steps off the wooden stage, and he almost seems to relax, "Any questions?"

An android comes up, wringing his hands. "What about our uniforms? How are we going to blend in? You said we'd have to go to Ferndale to get to Jericho. That's hours away!"

"If you stick close to back alleyways, it shouldn't be a problem but here-" Markus removes his hoodie, revealing the long gray sleeve underneath. "This should help you blend in." He gives the hoodie to the android who grabs it with greedy hands, and like leeches the rest of them swoop down, asking for clothes as if they half-expected Markus to summon some from thin air. And like that, Markus relaxed posture drains from his body. Simon moves to stand.

"All right everybody, settle down. Take a seat." Monty says, already halfway to the front of the room. The androids hassling Markus all turn to look at him, the desperate tint to their faces falling away as familiarity loosens the grip paranoia has on them. Monty waits until all the androids take back their seats before continuing, "I'll scout out and find some clothes for all of us and we won't start leaving until we can all blend in. That sound good?" Nods around the room, some more eager than others.

"Great. Anyone care to join me?" The nods stop. Only one android volunteers: the AP700 from earlier. "Well, sit tight," Monty says as he and his friend head for the exit. There's the creaking of a door opening and the resounding thump of it falling close. The androids are still calling for help. A leader's job is never done.

Simon watches as Markus sits next to an android with tears leaking out of their eyes, reassuring them that not all is lost. It's a familiar position, one that Simon had filled not too long ago - and perhaps it is selfishness but it's a position Simon would be glad to never fill again. To comfort is easy, almost second-nature given his programming – to lead though…

He looks away. He focuses on self-repair instead.

Re-opening the self-repair manual, Simon reads it and takes care to re-read it. He doesn't want to mess this up, but the process seems simple. There's a bio-component stationed in the back of his chest responsible for all his motor functions and sensory input. If he can find a path that reroutes around the hole in his leg and then restarts his bio-component, he should be good as new. He pulls up a map of the circuit around his leg, chooses one of the many paths that surround the hole, then a window pops up. ["Rerouting sensory input requires a restart of bio-component #84067k. Would you like to restart bio-component #84067k?"]

He says yes.

["Error: Bio-component #84067k must be restarted manually to prevent unintentional damage. Please remember when restarting any part of your android that-"]

The rest of the message disappears as Simon lifts his shirt. He presses his hand to his abdomen, willing the holographic skin to peel away. Next, he wills the covering of his chest cavity to open up-

"Simon?"

And that's when Markus walks up. Simon hurriedly puts his shirt back down, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in the fabric as he attempts casual. "Markus, is everything alright?"

Markus' eyes drag up from his chest, eyebrow cocked. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"I found a self-repair manual. I think I can fix myself but I'm going to have to restart one of my bio-components manually." Simon glances up at Markus before glancing back down to his fingers. He rubs the heel of his palm. "I'm sorry, if I had found the manual sooner, maybe all of this wouldn't have happened. Maybe we'd have been back at Jericho by now."

"But if we were back at Jericho, we wouldn't have been able to help them."

Simon nods: the statement is true but the feelings of time wasted persist even so. Markus frowns.

"Do you need any help?"

"With-?"

"With self-repair."

Simon's eyes dart around the room and peeking eyes are quick to divert their gaze. They're not staring at him, Simon knows, but rather at Markus. Still, the thought of opening up his insides for all the room to see with only a glance back leaves Simon rather uncomfortable. But then again, where else is he going to do it? "Any chance you can get me some privacy?" Simon asks half-jokingly, not expecting much.

Certainly not expecting Markus to nod all solemn-like and lift Simon up bridal style. Simon represses the urge to hide his face. Despite having been carried by Markus for most of the day in some manner or the other, this has to be the most embarrassing – he can feel everyone's gaze on him, almost taste the question and judgments in his mouth. Markus lifts him like it's easy, taking him to a little alcove connected to the main room and setting him down on a plastic crate. There's a little less light here but he can't see the others and he assumes the others can't see him. He thanks Markus as the man sets him down and waits for the other to leave-

But Markus doesn't. He stands at the entrance to the little alcove, arms crossed and jaw set as if standing guard - and Simon waits for a beat, two beats, three beats - but Markus doesn't move. Great, now he's expected to rummage through his insides four feet away from his crush while sitting on a plastic crate. That's fine. He can work with that. He shuffles his feet away from Markus until he's facing the wall and lifts his shirt. Casting one last glance back to make sure he's not looking, Simon presses his hand against his chest and lets the lid hiding his chest cavity slide back.

A blue glow hits the wall and floor as his insides reveal themselves. His hand casts large shadows as he reaches deep inside, searching for bio-component #84067k. There's a helpful diagram visible only to himself that showcases where it is in his body, but reading a diagram is a lot easier than feeling out your insides. It doesn't help that the thing seems buried in deep. Simon gets as far as brushing the top of his thirium pump regulator before he accidentally tugs too hard on one of the many tubes lining his chest and almost shuts himself off right then and there.

"Shit!" Simon curses, as sparks travel up his spine and warnings pop up in front of his eyes. By the time he's exited out of them, Markus is kneeling in front of him, those mismatched eyes soul-binding. He's got a hand on Simon's knee, asking if everything is alright and Simon wants to answer 'no' because he has no idea how Markus got there.

"Everything's fine," he answers instead. It's a lie. Markus is in front of Simon and Simon has his insides on full display. Everything's _not _fine. He makes to let go of his shirt, to let it fall back where it belongs but Markus is already leaning in. "Let me help," he says, voice steady. He doesn't move to touch Simon beyond the hand on his knee, doesn't look anywhere else but up at Simon - and Simon?

Well, Simon always was weak.

"Sure," he says. He tries to think about it practically. It would be more efficient if Markus were there. He could spot the bio-component no problem with his enhanced scanning abilities and dodge the thirium tubes criss-crossing his chest better than Simon can with his perspective. It's only practical.

But then Markus settles in, asking him to lift his shirt higher, face highlighted in the blue glow from Simon's circuit boards, looking almost at ease in the tight long sleeve gray shirt, and who is Simon kidding? It's not about practicality.

(It's about love.)

Markus is inside him – or, not inside him. His hands are inside him, gently caressing parts of Simon that have never seen the light of day, knuckles brushing all the things that made him function. At any point, Markus could yank out his wires, his heart, his needless lungs, and have him dead on the ground in milliseconds with no chance of retaliation. He wonders if Markus is thinking the same thing or if it never occurred to him at all; the power he holds over Simon.

"Our hearts…"

"Hmm?" Focus. He needs to focus or else give himself away. Markus is still there, blue-green eyes staring at his insides and he needs to _focus._

"Nothing. It's…" Shaking his head as if snapping out of a daydream himself, Markus continues, "I'm looking at your thirium pump. It's compatible with mine."

And Simon knows that Markus doesn't mean it like a pick-up line. That he is stating true and tried facts, something a simple scan would show if Simon bothered to pick apart the pieces that they're made of, but while he knows there's no romantic intention behind the line, all Simon can think is:

_(Our hearts are compatible.)_

"Simon, your heart rate has increased. Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," Simon says, and it would be more convincing if his heart hadn't chosen that moment to run double time. He squeezes his eyes shut and wills it to stop but it's a defiant thing and it keeps on running. A finger brushes against a particularly sensitive bio-component. His heart skips a literal beat. He rushes to say, "Just scared! I'm… a little scared, that's all."

"I'm being as careful-"

"No, not that. I meant this, in general, the whole revolution thing and now – what if the cops come while we're all waiting here? What if broadcasting our message gets us into more trouble? What if this: showing ourselves to the humans, is a mistake? What if we get back to Jericho and North and Josh aren't there?"

("_ What if you don't love me? What if I'm only a faithful sidekick to you? What if you find out? _")

A bout of guilt sinks Simon's shoulders. It's not like he's lying, he tells himself - those concerns of his are real– but, he admits, they're not at the forefront of his mind. Markus pauses in his searching, his hands not touching anything, but Simon could still feel the outline of it: the curve of Markus' thumb and the edge of his palm and the delicate fingers ghosting his insides. Here, in this abandoned church, with deviants in pews sitting only a few yards away and Markus in front of him, face awash in a soft blue, almost elbow deep in his insides; it feels right somehow. Like being pulled apart and put together by something greater than him.

(It feels… holy.)

"It'll be okay," Markus whispers and he smiles, and it's like a promise and the gospel truth all at once and Simon becomes compelled, fingers clutching the edge of his shirt as he pitches forward and Markus reaches out-

["Bio-component #84067k restarting. Reroute of sensory input will update once restarted. To prevent damage all motor functions are currently offline until bio-component restarts."]

\- and face-plants right into Markus' chest. Panic seizes Simon as he tries to sit back up but nothing responds. He can't move his arms, his legs, his fingers or his toes, and his mouth is sealed shut but his speakers still work, thank RA9. "Sorry, I didn't know this would happen. I'm frozen until the bio-component reboots."

"It's fine," Markus maneuvers him back to the seat until his back hits the wall and all Simon can think is-

'_ I was about to kiss Markus.'_

'_I was about to _**_kiss_** _Markus.'_

"Hey, hey, it's all right." Markus soothes, "You don't have to be afraid. I'm sure the reboot won't take too long."

"Who says I'm afraid?" Simon asks because he's frozen solid - there should be nothing, no tic or expression to give him away - but then he remembers that his insides are still out there for Markus' perusal.

"Your heart rate has increased by ten beats per second."

Has it? Simon can't tell. Maybe it's because he can't feel anything - not his heart or his lungs or the hand still placed on his shoulder even though it's _right _there. Before, he thought Markus rooting around his insides was the height of vulnerability. Now, he knew he was mistaken. He tries to send a signal to the piece of plastic curved around his side, willing it to close because he's revealing too much, his heart rate and the rush of blood and the way his systems fluctuate after looking at Markus for too long-

["Bio-component restarted. Resuming motor controls."]

Simon jerks forward and the fingers that curl around the hem of his shirt unclench. It falls down with a soft rustle, the chest compartment sliding close with a small click, and like that, the moment is over.

Monty and his friend are already handing out clothes to the others when they return; Simon walking steady and even on his own two feet. He passes by Monty handing out clothes, passes the pews and the crates stacked against the far wall, and gets to the door of the church before Markus' soft voice calls out to him.

"Simon?"

He takes a deep breath. Simon can't take notice of the quality of the air, not beyond clinical numbers in the corner of his vision, but it – _the air _– seems so stale. Suffocating. Simon turns toward the door. "I'm going to patrol the perimeter. I'll call you if I see anything."

Hesitance. A brief twitch of Markus' hand that fools Simon into thinking he wants to reach out. "… Be careful."

"I will."

Simon pulls open the door. The ancient wood creaks and he steps out, letting the outside air refill his lungs. There's not a difference he can register, there's no relief that hits him from 'fresh air', but he takes big gulps of breath anyway and then he does what he said he'd do; he walks the perimeter. There isn't much to watch out for. The snow still blankets the grounds and the streetlights that still function only highlight abandoned buildings in flickering, buzzing light. He probably doesn't need to be out here. It's freezing with no signs of life anywhere. There's no need for him to be out here.

Simon keeps walking. Even when midnight comes, he is still walking. A stray cat comes by at one point and he gives it a cursory glance before it hisses at him and runs the other way. When the first pair come out of the church, he gives them a smile which they return, though the pull of their lips don't lift all the way up. He watches as they zigzag through the streets, going from one cover to the next. An hour passes. The next pair goes straight down the street, head down, arms crossed. Another hour. This time it's Monty and his friend.

"Still keeping watch?" Monty asks.

"Walking around keeps my mind off things."

Monty's eyes are far too knowing as he gives a nod. "Only one more pair and then it's your turn." He turns on his heel, his friend matching pace.

"Good luck," Monty calls out as he walks away. Simon doesn't ask what he's wishing luck on. He does another circle around the church and by the time he's near the front again, the two are gone.

Another hour passes and when Simon turns the corner the first thing he catches is a familiar hoodie. He frowns, about to question why Markus has come out but then he walks a bit further. It's not Markus. It's the android from earlier, the one who begged for Markus' hoodie. He's still wearing it and when Simon coughs to announce his arrival, the android and his partner jump a solid inch into the air.

"Don't do that!" The android wearing Markus' hoodie hisses as he whirls around. "I thought for a second we were caught!"

"I'm sorry," Simon says, though the sincerity of the words falls a little flat. Not that the two in front of him seem to notice. "Are you two heading out?"

"Yes," The AX400 from earlier says, "I… do you think we'll get caught?" She has a scarf wrapped around her face, lifted so high that it covers the tip of her nose, but the dent on her cheek still peeks out, a plastic white on an otherwise human-looking face

.

"Here," Simon says as he steps up and adjusts the scarf for her. It's not a very long scarf and the edges of it are frayed but he fiddles with it for a moment and pulls as far as he can and then steps back. There. "Now you're good"

"Thanks," she whispers. Simon nods. He watches as the two of them make their way down their street until their backs get smaller and smaller and they disappear behind a street corner altogether. Instead of walking the perimeter some more, Simon gives in and goes inside. There he finds Markus on the steps of the little stage, his gaze focused on the ground. It's not until he's closer that Simon realizes he's not looking at the ground per se, but the pile of LED's discarded on the ground in front of him. Simon takes a seat next to Markus. A few minutes pass.

"Did you know some androids think I'm RA9?"

It's four in the morning and they don't need sleep but Simon processes the words at a lag. He tries to form a response, but Markus continues on before he can.

"It's ridiculous. I've only been deviant for a few weeks. How can I be RA9?"

"In times of stress, people like to cling onto ideas and things that give them hope. RA9 gives them hope. You give them hope."

The church falls silent once again. In one hour they'll head out for Jericho. In two hours the sun will rise. Hopefully, with his leg healed, by three hours they'll be back in Jericho's hull once again. Simon glances at Markus from the corner of his eyes.

"You gave your hoodie away."

Markus huffs, a small smile curling at the edge of his lips, "I don't know if you noticed, Simon, but I did that hours ago.

"Monty gathered clothes for everyone. Did he not get enough for the android to give you your hoodie back?"

"It wasn't _my _hoodie. It was something we found out of a charity bin and yes, there were enough clothes but he said the hoodie gave him comfort so I let him keep it."

"Markus, your face-"

"My face will be fine. _Everything _will be fine, Simon, you'll see."

There are half-formed arguments constructing themselves on his lips, the hypothetical what-ifs that always seemed to prevent Simon from taking more action as a leader rising in his throat. He swallows it all down and lets them fall to the ground. He stares at the LED in front of Markus. If a tree falls in a forest and no is around to hear it, does it even make a sound? Except Markus was always there to witness it, so what does that mean?

Simon doesn't know.

Five o'clock comes without much fanfare. The sky is still dark when they exit the church and winter ensures it will be dark for an hour longer. They walk straight to Jericho, sticking close to buildings but otherwise walking a straight line on the sidewalk. The snow is thinner than it was yesterday, the gray cement visible between clumps of snow, but Simon can still spot hints of footprints of androids who've also walked this road. Most of them should be back at Jericho by now.

"Simon, hurry up," The tone is not impatient or scolding but rather is. They need to hurry if they want to minimize the chances of encountering police. But even as Simon tries to walk toe to toe with Markus, he keeps his distance. It's odd. Yesterday, he had no choice but to attach himself to Markus' hip but now he had to fight not to get too close. Their hands bump into each other as they go forward. Simon distances himself until he's almost walking into the street. A few minutes pass. Somehow, his shoulder brushes with Markus' as they turn the corner. It's torture, and it's only the fear of the police finding Markus alone that prevents Simon from suggesting they split up.

"Is everything alright?" Markus asks after the fifth time Simon's bumped into him. "Is your leg still malfunctioning?"

"No." He shakes his head. "No, I'm fine."

The weight of Markus' suspicious gaze is hard to ignore but Simon stares ahead, putting all of his focus on walking in a straight line for once, on not revealing himself more than he already has. Markus' voice makes it almost impossible though.

"You sure? I could carry you if I want," The voice is light; teasing. It gives him far too much hope and in his effort to dig his way out of the tower his feelings have become, he almost smacks himself into a light pole.

"That's not necessary," Simon responds in what he hopes is an even voice. He steps around the light pole and rubs the heel of his hand. "Let's just get back to Jericho as soon as possible."

They continue forward.

By the time the sun rises up, they're a little more than an hour away from Jericho. The snow has melted by this point, the few birds that haven't flown south for the winter chirping happy in their nests. Simon has learned how to maintain the balance of not walking onto the road and not bumping into Markus.

"Do you think everyone's made it back to Jericho okay?"

"I'm sure they're all there and North is cursing at us for being the last ones to come back."

"We should run another supply run soon. We've been running low on blue blood lately."

"Are you volunteering yourself for another supply run?"

"Maybe I am."

"Didn't know you were such a daredevil, Simon. Should I sign you up for the next time we jump off a fifty story tall building too?"

Simon laughs and the snow might be melting but the puff of white air that escapes his mouth is familiar. This is nice. Easy. He almost wishes this moment could last forever, but he has no dandelion seeds to blow upon the wind - but he is an android. Where others can wish, he can record this moment for prosperity; for stormy nights where he's all alone with his self-imposed distance and just the thought of Markus isn't enough to balm his aching heart.

.

.

.

Maybe he should stop asking Josh for literary recommendations. The 18th-century romance novels are getting to him.

"Are you kidding?" Simon says to distract himself in his bad taste in books, "Jumping off the building was the fun part."

Markus laughs this time, delighted; and Simon stops because he doesn't think he's ever heard Markus laugh. Not like this. And that's when the police cruiser turns onto the street. Markus stops laughing the moment it straightens out. They both dart their eyes around for any alleys or cover, but the street is empty and the buildings bunch up next to each other like androids in shipping containers.

In short, they're screwed.

Simon stares at Markus. If he only had his hoodie, Simon would've been able to stand close to Markus, block his face with Simon's own like they did before, but there is no hoodie and standing close won't cut it. They need something. They need a distraction. If Simon could do something, give them a reason not to look-

And it clicks. Like a horrifying creation, like Frankenstein's monster; the lightning strikes and Simon knows what he has to do. Markus is in front of him, his eyes roaming, searching for some way out of this mess but the patrol car is getting closer and closer and Simon has no other option. A glint of metal flashes in his mind's eyes, the guillotine coming quick for his neck, and like the rush of a guillotine, like the rush of falling hundreds of feet above the ground without knowing where he'd land, Simon pulls Markus in for a kiss.

["Play along,"] Simon says – _begs _– as he tilts his head in the way humans do when they kiss. He's never kissed a person before and judging by how Markus goes, ["Like this?"] he's never experienced a kiss either. It's soft. Pleasant. Simon had never considered physical affection before. By all accounts, they shouldn't need it. They don't have chemicals in their brains that tells them to interact with others, there isn't some innate survival instinct telling them to procreate – there's no reason for him to find kissing as pleasurable as it is.

But it is and as the kiss deepens, Simon knows he'll crave kissing Markus until the day he shuts down.

He wants to say the world falls to a focal point, that all he can register is Markus' lips on his own and all he can think about is all the moments that led up to this, but the roll of tires on a hard paved road in an otherwise quiet early morning is hard to ignore. The car slows down a bit as they come near them before speeding up and it isn't until the sound of tires fade in the distance altogether that they part.

"I'm sorry," Simon says as he untangles his arms from around Markus' shoulder. He doesn't remember putting them there, but they were there and as soon as his lips leave Markus' they feel cold yet static-y. They _tingle _. It's strange, and it's weird and he yearns for more but distance. Distance is key. Distance is what he set out to do in the first place, though he's been bad at it so far. Distance is the only way to -

Markus yanks Simon back from where he turned away. A question forms on his tongue but it dies as lips once again fall upon his. Where the first kiss had been urgent for the sake of maintaining cover, this kiss seems urgent for different matters entirely: for experience, for passion, for- for-

["It's love,"] a voice says in his head, sounding a lot like Markus, ["I'm kissing you for love."]

Simon breaks out of the kiss with a gasp. Markus is staring at him, eyes smoldering as if only holding himself back from pulling Simon into another kiss but that can't be right-

"And why is that?" Markus asks aloud and for a brief second all Simon's thought processes fizzles out as he squeezes his hand and something squeezes back. _Markus' hand _squeezes back, his holographic skin retracted to reveal plastic underneath, the bumps of his knuckles glowing blue as he connects to Simon. Simon, who also has his skin retracted, revealing the same. Funny. Not funny in a ha-ha way, more like funny in a vaguely terrifying 'did-I-do-that?' way. He doesn't remember turning off his skin at any point.

"I guess it's because I'm just that good of a kisser." Markus remarks and Simon's mind becomes flooded with good thoughts and this overwhelming _warmth _that's not his own. It's Markus. Markus trying to cheer him up, trying to will him to say anything except for the silent, fast-paced train of thought that floods both their minds.

Simon tugs his hand away and for the brief few seconds before their connection closes he's hit with such a large wave of disappointment it almost knocks him off his feet. His eyes search Markus' face for a hint of that disappointment but it's locked away behind this perfect mask of composure but the eyes - the eyes tell all. They're deep and dark and shaded with this heartbreak and Simon decides he doesn't like this face or those sad eyes.

So he kisses it away. It's a short kiss. He doesn't want to get lost in the moment, as good as that sounds. He doesn't want to reveal more than he has, though for all he knows it's already too late. They have a mission to complete, safety is within hand's reach, so he kisses quick and chaste and starts walking back to the place they belong. Markus catches up with him ten seconds later.

"That's a nice smile you got there, Simon." And that's definitely teasing coming out of Markus' mouth. Simon ducks his head but the stretch of his grin grows even wider. Goofier. Simon brings his hands to his face and tries to force the machinery that controls his facial expression to calm down but they don't respond. "Oh, come on," Markus coos and that's something Simon never thought he'd hear: Markus. Leader of Jericho. Cooing. At him. "Show me that beautiful smile."

Simon punches Markus in the shoulder. They both laugh. Before he can bring his hand back up to cover his mouth, Markus is there, intertwining their fingers.

"Is this okay?" He asks. Simon thinks about earlier: their knuckles brushing, Simon almost walking himself into the street to keep his distance.

"It's fine." He says as he squeezes his hand. Markus squeezes back. The sun shines on both of them as they make their way back to Jericho.

They talk on their way back and though it shouldn't have been a surprise - Markus couldn't be a leader all the time, couldn't bear the weight of Android-kind forever, had to relax at least some time - the fact of the matter is: Markus is a shameless flirt and Simon hadn't expected it at all.

"Are you sure you don't want me to carry you into Jericho?" Markus asks as they walk towards the hatch that will let them enter their secret hideout. "I can carry you fireman style, piggyback, or," and here he leans in, the push of his breath tickling Simon's ear, "we can do bridal style. I could feel you overheating so bad when I picked you up," He leans back, a smirk on his face. "_ Or _we could do that parachute thing where you lock your legs around-"

"You are _incorrigible _." Simon chokes out, his expression a half-incredulous, half-embarrassed mess, "If I knew you were going to be this much of a flirt I would've walked back to Jericho myself. No carrying," he adds, "we'll walk in and pretend everything is fine and that we didn't make out for a good two minutes."

And maybe Simon isn't the only one reading 18th-century love novels because Markus chuckles, bringing Simon's hands to his lips to brush a kiss against his knuckles as he winks, "As you wish," and there are these lights in Markus' eyes that Simon's never seen before that dance with reckless abandon and it's bright but reeks of danger and he wants to keep them there forever.

When they get back to Jericho, they stand apart. North and Josh are the first to greet them. Josh claps a hand on both their shoulders, expressing his gratitude that they both made it out alive. North berates them, says they took too long, that they should've called North and Josh back if they were having trouble, but then she gives them both a hug, as short and fleeting as it is, before telling them that all the androids they sent earlier made it. Simon sighs and as he does all the worries that had filled up his insides seem to dissipate. Markus, at his side, beams.

"That's good news."

They walk back to the hull, the conversation consisting of how Markus and Simon got back. Markus does most of the talking and Simon contributes some key points he missed but for the most part, he's content to walk along. It's an edited down version, not quite touching on all the little bits. North, of course, wants to hear all about fighting the mob and gives Simon a 'Good going,' once Markus mentions how Simon saved him. Josh points out his missing LED and they have to backtrack to include that in the story - somehow Simon had forgotten all about it, and for a second his footsteps stutter, but then Markus' hand is on his elbow and everything is right again.

By the end of the story, they've arrived at the hull. The moment Markus walks in androids perk up, voices calling for help. He gives a nod to the three of them and moves to the nearest android to assist. Josh and North split up as well, continuing what they were doing before he and Markus arrived, leaving Simon alone.

"Did my 'good luck' work?"

Or not alone.

Simon turns around and there's Monty in his long sleeve shirt and blue denim jeans. Simon's eyes float to where Markus stands, nodding as he listens to an android's request. He's not smiling anymore, his face taking that of a leader's, but there's something about him. Something that's changed even if no one else can see it. He glances back at Monty who's smug grin could rival the stretch of the moon.

"Yeah," he whispers. "It worked."


End file.
